Wood
by sonsofmogh
Summary: Marcus Flint, the infamous Super Seventh Captain of the Slytherin Quidditch team, blames repeating his final year at Hogwarts on Oliver Wood. How, you might ask? Well, wouldn't you like to know?


**Author's Note:** As a fair warning, this fic is rude and crude in nature, so if such things offend you, please look elsewhere for fluffy little bunnies.

* * *

Dear Journal,

I hate everything. I really do. Life is more unfair than the fact that Mudbloods get to go to our school. I'm stuck in this stupid place for one more year, and it's all Wood's fault. I know he's not in my house, but it's definitely his fault. Damn him and his buggering arse for distracting me all last year.

It all started the day Malfoy's dad delivered the Nimbus 2001s. That Weasley kid hexed himself, and Malfoy made some Mudblood girl cry. Wood wasn't happy, and once practice was over, he came to see me and let me know just how hacked off he was. He pushed me up against the changing room wall and pressed up against me hard. It made me feel funny, and I think I liked it. Don't remember a thing he said, but Merlin's shaggy bumcrack, he was angry. I didn't know that was sexy, but I guess we do learn things at school here and there.

That night, I couldn't sleep. All I could see was Wood's mouth right in front of mine, and his whole body pinning me to the wall. Good job I know how to take care of _that_ problem. Jones, the bloke in the bed next to mine, hates me now (he said so the next morning), but I don't care. A man has his needs, my dad always says.

Well, here's the buggered up part. The next night, I thought about him again. I mean, that's not bent, is it? I hadn't had a good wank in a while, so really, anything could've set it off. Not to mention I'd already wanked to every fit girl in this sodding place, and firsties really just don't do it for me. Wood's pretty enough, so I suppose if I squint he's about on par with that fifth year Ravenclaw prefect girl who talks too much.

But that wasn't enough. Every time I did it, I just wanted more, and all I could think about was him and his stupid blue eyes and his stupid jaw and his stupid abs that I may or may not have seen while he was showering after Potter broke his arm with a Bludger. I really wanted to look closer, but you know how it is. If you look at a bloke's bits, then you're definitely queer. I ain't queer, so waist up only.

I found some firsty Gryffindor with a camera and made him give me a picture of Wood. The kid was going to ask why, and I told him I'd turn him inside out with a plumbing spell if he even thought about asking, so he didn't. It wasn't a great picture, since Wood was in full Quidditch uniform, so I made the kid go and get me one from the locker room. He wasn't going to, but I asked him how he fancied a close-up shot of his own arsehole, so he did. I don't think I left my room all that weekend.

Essays started piling up, and books I hadn't opened in days were left in my trunk. I had better things to do. This went on for months — just me, Wood, and wood.

So, naturally, it's completely Wood's fault I flopped all of my NEWTs. So, this year, I'm going to get him back. I wonder how _he _likes wanking his way to failure. I have a whole year to make it happen. Oh, sweet vengeance, you will be mine.

Sincerely,

Marcus

* * *

Dear Journal,

This is the year, I can feel it. The team is getting up to speed faster than ever, and without any new members to train, we're like a well-polished broomstick: fast and efficient.

Something odd happened today, though. Flint is being extraordinarily weird these days, and I don't know what to make of it. For months now, I've noticed him staring at me. Sometimes, he'll be glaring daggers, and others like he's salivating. I'm starting to think he took too many Bludgers to the head the past few years and thinks I'm Alicia Spinnet or something.

I don't even want to think about the time he slammed into me like a runaway trolley and dropped a naked picture of himself. There are not enough scouring spells. There are just not enough.

Anyway, I can't stop thinking about her. She's driving me bloody insane, and there is sod all I can do about it. I mean, it's not like _that_. There is no future, and this will be the last I'll ever get a chance to see her up close, which is why I think she's been on my mind so much. Those seductive, golden curves and graceful design . . . .

I love whispering to her when I'm alone. I have to be careful, though, or Percy might hear me again. I didn't mean to, but it sort of slipped out after some quality time with the ol' Bat and Bludgers. Percy had asked what I meant, and I said some waffle about a charity Quidditch match that never existed and I think he bought it. I bloody well hope so, anyway.

I've been more careful after that, though. Who could possibly understand what it's like? I've wanted her for seven years, and this is my last chance. I can't bollocks this up. I just can't. It means too much. The team knows I hate to lose, but I don't think they could grasp how much I want to drown myself in her glory.

Gods, I am a sodding wreck.

The only picture I have of her is wearing out, and the way she seems to sparkle in sunlight is fading. But I'm ruddy well not going to ask Professor Snape for another snapshot, or I'm pretty sure I'll end up in detention until I grow chest hair. I know I got a bit desperate after we lost the Hufflepuff match because of the Dementors, but I can't do anything stupid.

So I will wait for her. My beautiful lady. I can barely breathe thinking about her and how, once we pound the piss out of Slytherin, we can finally be together.

You understand, don't you, Journal? She isn't just a _thing_ to me. I love her, and I've wanted her for as long as I can remember. It's not so far-fetched that I have, you know, physical desire towards her. She isn't some prize to be won, but a confirmation that someone working to earn her has done his very best and she shines her light on him. I don't know, it's complicated.

It doesn't matter, though. Soon, she'll be mine, and there's nothing that Flint and his snaggle-toothed flock of wankers can do to keep me from the Quidditch Cup. Not this year. She's mine.

Lots of love,

Oliver


End file.
